I need to drink more.

Management was nice enough to buy honey from me before the holiday and only casually mention (I assume as my holiday gift) that I haven't posted in a while. There is something about only casually mentioning my short comings that makes the guilt so much worse.  I mean, I might as well be Bea.

I've been trying my hand at this writing thing, and I realize that its driving me to want to drink. The problem is, i haven't actually gone in my cups. That's where my problem comes from. I finally get the stereotype of creative people with substance abuse issues. Its because you stop worrying about sounded retarded when you're plastered.

Let's take for example my "corporate retreat" last week. First of all, corporate retreat? There are, at best, 5 of us working here, and at worst, just me. Let's be real. We all work within 20 feet of each other in a 45 degree freezer box with no windows. I imagine only gangrenous (spelled that right on the FIRST TRY) civil war veterans understand the sort of camaraderie we share (I had to google that spelling). We don't need no stinkin' retreat.

But apparently, having "values" and "goals" are important to a company. This is really in direct opposition to my life philosophy which says that values are what tether you to the anchor of your goals.

The only thing that kept me from quitting on the spot was the promise of alcohol. Free alcohol. So all five of us gathered around the conference table.  After about a case of beer later, we came up with our grand sweeping corporate value: SUCCESS. Thank GOD we cleared that up. I mean, I was skeptical when I heard that we needed this retreat to help us gain focus and perspective. But when I heard that we shooting for success? Man, that just opened up whole new vistas before me. I had been self sabotaging left and right.

Of course, all sarcasm aside, there were only FIVE people. And four of them thought that this was pretty ground breaking. Like, real self congratulatory stuff. So, I drank to see if some how beer could turn the asinine into the sublime.

It didn't. But I managed to fake my way into some participation points.   And isn't that the joy about being slightly buzzed? You can get excited about all sorts of miserable shit. HECK YES, I want to be successful, that is a great idea! Sustainability? Integrity? Other vaguely positive sounding buzz words? Sign me up! Concrete plans about achieving specific time-lined goals? GTFO. Not now.

I am always amused by myself even when I am as sober as a church mouse, but being drunk makes me all sorts of enthusiastic, and I can get behind ANY idea. Management accuses me of being salty. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I think it means I'm cranky.  When I am drunk, I am such a happy drunk. And I am always drunk inside my own head, but the self-consciousness usually keeps the giggles inside. But Drunk Honey (who is usually getting judged by Sober Honey) isn't afraid of sounding dumb. In fact, I am pretty sure she embraces being a complete dullard. And even lacks some of the situational awareness required to know how dumb she's being.

Drunk Honey has great ideas. That being said, I'm going to hunt down some whiskey and see if I can't get some more blog posts humming along.

Coping Skills

Management brings up a good point about winter. What the hell is happening here? Its December 15th, and I am still in my fall coat? This is some grade-A bull plop right here.

I am one of those hearty born and bred midwesterners, who actually likes the winter, and unseasonable warmth upsets me. Even though its warm right now, its cloudy and wet. Its in-between weather. Its cloudy, but not raining. The moisture in the air is insidious, seeping into your socks and your mood. Its warm for December, which means puddles are only partially frozen and its anyone's guess as to which one will be your undoing, and will see you deposited unceremoniously on the pavement.

I like the cold and the snow. Winter gives you a perspective on life that doesn't quite come from any other experience. It gives you a certain degree of stoicism.  Personally, I enjoy the challenge of winter. Around the first of the year I find myself asking "Will this be the year that finally kills me?"

There is a saying here in MN. "If you don't like the weather, wait 10 minutes, and it will change." We live in a state where 50 degree temperature swings in 24 hours, while not exactly common, is not entirely unheard of. I've celebrated my brother's March birthday with a picnics and with sledding. There is a certain degree (ha!) of the unknown in our daily weather, but sure as sugar, it will get cold, and it will get dark. And on the other side of that, it will get warm again.

Extreme weather (both hot and cold, because here we have it all) gives this place a sense of community. For example, in last year's famous Metrodome busting snow storm, I shoveled snow for nearly 12 hours. I had to be to work 24 miles away at 5 am. My dad, the hero that he is, drove to get me,  because my tiny car was stuck, at 2 am. We shoveled my road, we shoveled his road, I shoveled at work, I shoveled my grandparents, my aunt, my neighbor. A man with a cigarette and snowblower walked the city streets, grinning broadly as stranded strangers applauded.

Its what you might call "problem weather". The weather here presents all kinds of problems. "How do we build a road that with stand extreme cold and extreme heat?" "Can I carry all my groceries to my door without falling on the ice?" "Where do we put 96 inches of snow?" "How can I keep my bees alive?" "Will my car start in -40?"

But in addition to these very practical lessons the weather teaches us, it teaches something I think that can serve us far better. It teaches you that you're feelings don't really matter. 

We absolutely love to complain about the weather in MN (and we all do, I'm not above it). Its always giving us something to complain about, this is a state of uncomfortable weather. We can feel angry, and we often feel depressed, but the Earth's axis is going to go right on a'tiltin'. So go ahead, rail against the storm, try to "talk it out" with that cold front moving through. Stew all you want about the weather, but its still going to be cold, and its still going to be dark, and there is still going to be 3 feet of snow in your way.  Its why I love living here. Everyone can have as many feelings as they want, but be practical.  As depressed as you are about the sudden ice storm in late October leaving you stranded without your scraper, you still better figure out a way to scrape that ice off your car without snapping your credit card. 

So, why waste time feeling your feelings? You have a problem to solve.



Also, where's Bea?

DIY Momentum

So I was writing this waaaay too pot-boiler post about how depression is winter and blah blah (NB - it may be worth circling back to at some point), but then December 13-14 '11 happened. You can't really talk about winter when it's 35 and rainy. And snow? WE ARE LOSING OUR MAIN EXPORT PPL SHIT GOT REAL.

So maybe depression is like a winter, and we prepare for it and circle around our loved ones (relation means nothing). But maybe winter gets thrown a curveball, and you have a Minnesotan Spring in mid-December. Maybe an old friend calls you up, and you spend an evening in a valhalla of past relations with skeeball and blingo chalice winnings at Pat's in Uptown.

Sometime life is just right.

Cool story bro,

-The Management.

Also, this:

Introducting a segment.

I am mildly afraid of Management's disappoint in me for not posting anything. Bea apparently has much, much better coping mechanisms than me. The best of which is sending me Danielle Steel-esque post cards every day. I plan on wall papering my entry way with them.

I've been working on the Wedding  First Anniversary Quilt for my cousin. I decided to hand quilt this. I am hoping that it will buy my out of some time in Purgatory. I imagine what my finger tips look like now is akin to something twist fate that befalls hell-bound seamstresses anyway. (I am pretty sure it was covered in The Inferno somewhere.)

There was a lot of socializing that happened, too. Mostly forced. My new strategy to get out of having to be a place is to announce that I need to be home to take my house plants outside, and then quickly run away before anyone thinks about it too hard. Given how successful it is and how quickly they jump on it, I think people are just an anxious to have me leave as I am to do so.

One of the things that Bea and I have noticed about talking to people is that when they are talking they are usually just brainstorming out loud, making you the toothpick they dunk into their pan of chocolaty, not-quite-done-yet thought brownies. Sometimes, it comes out that they're not even brownies in the first place, but some other contradictory baked good analogy.

Often times, things just need a little more thought. So I'd like to introduce the "Wait.... what?" segment to our blog. Every now and then (ok, most of the time) Bea and I have to run something through the processors more than once. This is a chance for us to ruminate on some of the more puzzling things in life.

Take for example, The Krampus. Bea brought this video to my attention A Krampus Carol - YouTube
 This tells the story of the Krampus, one of the darker figures from German folk lore. While the rest of the world was pretty on board with importing the positive reinforcement part of St. Nick, most of the world forgot about the positive punishment portion of this. Essentially, the Krampus, Kris Kringle's side-kick, would come and beat naughty children after Santa came through.

Krampus Clubs and Parades are quite popular in Germany, and actually they look pretty cool. See the video: Krampuslauf Graz 2010 Now, this is actually a Christmas tradition I could get behind, and growing up in a German household, this figure was always a part of my cultural knowledge. Some people might suggest that warped me. Now, I never feared the Krampus, but I also knew that being naughty would have much more significant repercussions than lack of rewards.

Like the old saying goes, there are two sides to every coin. And the opposite side on this particular coin is a bell-wearing half goat that will toss you into an icy river if you've been bad. The higher the risk, the higher the reward. Without the Krampus, being bad only means you don't get rewarded. Which to me translates to, "Well, if you're pretty satisfied with your life, go a head and be bad. You've got nothing to lose." Krampus though.... he'll lick your face for stealing candy.  And that's a lesson I think we could all benefit from learning.

But seriously, what was with the licking?

De Facto Introduction

Yes, I am internet-married to Bea's real-life sister. I let myself be tricked into it, and do not regret it. So I am ok with her having a crush on my mom, as I have a gigantic crush on her entire family, each member individually and as a group.
Now they are reading the blog, and I am wicked nervous. God, I hope they like me!

We're sort of hard to nail down.

Bea and I have been told on more than one occasion that we lack focus. I couldn't agree more. Hey, did you guys hear that thing on MPR with Alan Rickman?

But seriously folks, one of the most difficult things for robots-posing-as-human is trying to make sense. Bea and I make none. By that I don't mean that she and I being together makes no sense. That's probably the most sense-making thing ever to happen. I mean, that really as individuals its really hard for us to make sense to anyone other than ourselves.

For example, my cousin got married 11 months ago. I am making her a quilt as a wedding present. Am making. STILL MAKING. At this point, its an anniversary present. I took a page from Bea's book and decided to punish myself for not getting my work done and watch the Vampire Diaries. And that I have to watch it while I quilt to punish myself for not getting it done earlier.  I mean, I am really starting to hate this quilt. And I always hated the Vampire Diaries, from the very first second. But somehow, I've got more productive on the quilt. Bea gets it. I think she gave me VD. I tried to explain this to Management, and now he's currently re-evaluating his role in this blog. What was I talking about again? Oh, right. How Bea and I lack focus, and why we're perfect for each other.

Usually when you humans have a conversation with someone, you follow the imperative to be relevant. This is really hard for me for multiple reasons. Usually its because I'm not paying attention. Now, it might be because I am bored, or because I'm panicked about possibly needing to contribute to a social interaction, and trying not to let you humans smell my fear. It could also be because something shiny distracted me. Either way, having a conversation with a person makes wriggle like a worm on a hook, in that I am in pain, and not really understanding what is happening to me.

Some back story: Bea and I have known each other for a long time, but it look a long time for us to be friends. I directly attribute this to the fact that neither of us is in the market for a friend, or ever want to do any thing. Granted there were some key exceptions, such as seeing Hilary Duff movies that absolutely need to be seen. But like all good friendships that are based on a mutual desire to not be hanging out and instead watching Netflix in bed, it grew into something more: a profound mutual understanding. 

It was around this point that Bea moved to Texas. This was sad. But as I had lit off for Montreal a few years earlier, I understand the need to be Somewhere Else. So now Bea is in Austin. But she and I are built for long distance relationships. When she lived in the Twin Cities, it would be sad if we watched Dexter over the phone, like we both secretly really wanted to do. But now, since she lives in TX, its slightly less sad.

At this point you all (or y'all) might be snapping your collective fingers to try to get me back on track. What does all this have to do with making sense, focusing or conversations. Well, hold your horses! I'm getting there! I was talking about having conversations. But now since Bea is far away, we can't converse in person. So we decided to do what seemed like the only natural thing to do: write each other old timey love letters. (Bea is way better at sending things to me than I am to her.) Otherwise, its more or less texting and Facebook, which is more or less a way for us to indulge in our anti-social tendencies. Ain't the digital age great? The overall effect of this is that Bea and I have about 3 conversations going at once. Usually two threads on facebook, much to the annoyance of everyone around us, and on going texts.

The conversations go something like this:
Me: Someday, I want to complie a list of recipes from famous works of literature and call it "cooking the books"
Bea: You so need to do that! My figgy pudding is never as good as Mr. Darcy's
Me: hehe. Also, what's the deal with office parties?

Somehow in the course of our friendship, we discovered that by tossing "also" in front of any statement makes it immediately applicable to the conversation. I can't imagine what its like to have to try to talk to us. Management recently described it like this: "There's too much sarcasm, exuberance and lies with you two to be able to tell."

Now at this point in the personal essay that I try to tie everything all together, and some how muddle my way to pretending I am capable of linear thought. But if I were talking to Bea I'd just let the conversation lull, slipping her ....er, I mean my phone back into my pocket until another thought popped into my head.

Its nice to not have to make sense. Or focus.

Also, why would a 165 year old vampire want to date a high school girl anyway? What's the end game there?

Sweet Jesus, I Hate Solitaire.

In my mind, the set of actions that make up the human experience can, with few exceptions, be split into two seperate camps: the world of games and the world of stories. For the topic at hand, games will suffice.

The definition of a "game" is malleable, but I will describe it thus:

A negotiated formal set of constraints, whose outcome is arbitrated by a set of finite decisions interacting with other similarly constrained agents.

In this way, one could say that all of life is a game - school, writing, love, Mortal Kombat, climbing the corporate ladder, Chutes & Ladders, harvesting honey RUNNING FROM BEES et al.

Why yes, I am white bread. What tipped you off?

The Management has looked upon Bea & Honey's kerfuffle about cheating in the world's worst game, and thus he spoke:

Bea and Honey aren't playing the same game at all. Sure you've got the same overlay of row upon dreadful row of WHY ARE YOU PLAYING SOLITAIRE but when we look at the structure of a game, we can see that the rules (however strict or loose) are always negotiated - the first rule of any game is that all players agree to play by the communally understood rules. Because solitaire is A HORRIBLE GAME that is only played by a single agent, the rules are essentially whimsy. QED Bea is not cheating, she's just playing Beataire.

Which is still a terrible fucking game.

If I told you that I respect women, would you hold it against me?

While Honey was off sashaying around the north loop arm in arm with her Very Smart Mother, eating candy, and drinking booze, I was busy not doing any of that. In Texas. Also, let’s just go ahead and get the awkward stuff out of the way – yes, I have a crush on Honey’s mam, but what Honey failed to mention when she feigned almost having a feeling about it, is that she is facebook married to my sister. I’ve consulted the rulebook and if your robot lover is internet married to your real life sister, their mom is totally up for grabs, with the dad’s permission, naturally. And really, that is an uncomfortable conversation to have, so in the meantime I’ll just do nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. As you are about to see I have been occupying my time with very important topics, just tryina get to the root of some junk. Now, I have only lived two places: Minnesota and Texas. MN is badass and awesome and gives you bragging rights forever and ever about just how cold you can get before you start dying. And, well, Texas has lots of guys with beards so I win. So Much.

People in Texas are really flipping nice, which is great cause they all have guns. Consequently, I am a lot nicer as well, which really just means I am afraid to ask them to their faces why they are doing the weird things they do. For example, dudes down here like to announce left and right that they respect women. (And I took a poll of The Management and he confirms it’s weird.) Your reaction to this might be “oh, how nice, that the men with beards and guns respect women so much!” Mine, however, is to frantically wonder why I never invested in a panic room. It’s creepy, right? One minute you’re chatting up some bloke, staring longingly into his beard, and the next you are picturing yourself attempting to escape from his basement. The guys who have said this to me are very nice humans and not at all creepy in other respects (that I know of). But this is something that, to me, if you have to say out loud, seems like you are trying too hard. It is, in my mind, akin to inserting a nice little “I’m not racist, but…” into a conversation, (which also happens a lot down here). I tend to hear that as “never take anything I say seriously ever again.” Do men in MN respect women? I don’t know. But they know enough not to say they do, which I am really starting to appreciate.

I am fully willing to admit that this issue might be all me and there is a chance I am being a bit nitpicky. The only guy in MN I knew who frequently indulged in this habit was a total creeper, subsequently causing my hackles to always be up. I do recognize, however, that there are past and present cultural factors that might make a man feel there is more of a need for him to assert his respect for women, while I, a woman, never even contemplate the need for gender specificity when I talk of respect. There are worse things, to be sure, and maybe I really am being nitpicky but it still sticks out to me as an oddity. So, stop it, Texans… Or don’t, whatever, since, no, that is not a gun in my pocket. winky face.

- Bea